Gay or bisexual?
by Dionys
Summary: A series of short stories chronicling the sexual misadventures of our favourite detective-and-doctor duo. John's heat-of-the-moment inspired move turns into awkwardness and sex and more awkwardness.
1. Chapter 1

It began in the form of the worst cliché of all; a series of disturbing dreams. Pale skin, high cheekbones, sharp and accusing grey eyes. But the distinct lack of curves, anywhere, was what made it disturbing. Not only a lack of curves, a definite angularity. And the smell, one that was embarrassingly familiar. And the biggest draw? A coldness that melted to warmth beneath his touch. It was unusually hard to explain. What made it harder was that it wasn't even something that fell nicely into the category of sexual. That would mean he had to reconsider his sexuality, in which he was comfortable. This was simultaneously bigger and confined to just one person. One stubborn, dickish, smug, self-assured, utterly exasperating genius.

Later, his therapist (whom he hadn't fired yet, against the undoubtedly better judgment of the above person) would inform him that his subconscious thoughts, having nowhere else to turn, had finally leaked into his dreams, forcing a conscious… well, consciousness of them. She said the word a great deal. He had lifted and dropped his eyebrows at this, cocked his head to the side as though shaking off a twitch. Of course his own goddamned mind would betray him, it was the only thing in the world that hadn't so far.

Having partnered with his subconscious and turned on him, his _conscious_ mind now spent weeks _consciously_ imagining pinning thin men in black coats against the walls of his apartment, the corridors of laboratories and coroner's offices, having them forcibly over Lestrade's desk and once, against the backdrop of a real-world throb, on top of an icy table in the morgue.

And then there was the case where Sherlock had nearly gotten himself killed, again. Gotten them both killed, actually. Told the leering woman with the suitcase and redundant sunglasses (it was nearly two in the morning) that she ought to shoot them both now. She had trained the gun and nearly pulled the trigger, then saw what Sherlock had wanted her to see. Aiming sharpened her gaze, he explained later, made her see the billboard a few hundred metres behind him. She would be reminded of her son, the one that she had hurt and abandoned. It made her hesitate, and that's when one of the nearby policeman took his shot. He, that is, John, had yelled his usual 'Sherlock!' when the woman raised the pistol, was sure that the crack was the bullet tearing life from Sherlock's body. He needed a second to understand why the woman, instead, had staggered a bit and then crumpled to the floor, and by that time he had heroically and stupidly pushed Sherlock out of the way into the alley beside them.

'What,' Sherlock wanted to know, 'are you doing?'

The images caught up and it made sense, slightly, but John still thought it would be prudent to declare, 'She was going to – so I –'

Sherlock waited, but that was it. 'Well observed, but I had it under control.'

It was a standard case, a standard night and a standard exchange between the two, but the recent dreams and the fact that John had been split-second paralysed with the thought of Sherlock's death _yet again_ and the fact that it wasn't, and was never going to be, any skin off Sherlock's teeth, forced him to grab the man by the coat collar and attack his mouth. With his mouth.

Less than two seconds later, it was over because Sherlock had pushed him off. But Sherlock's angry, darting gaze, not to mention the delicious satisfaction of seeing that John had truly shocked him, only made John do it again, for longer this time, and this time he was the one who retracted, and this time it was because there was a hint, a very small one, of Sherlock reacting to it. Reacting positively, that is. And it set off a shoe bomb in his mind. That was when it all registered in spectacular fashion and John couldn't bear to even look at him. Ears burning, he fell out of the alleyway. He had almost entirely forgotten about Russian mafia lady, but thankfully she was in cuffs and there was red and blue flashing everywhere.

Sherlock, meanwhile, stood still for a beat longer. Where it had exploded for John, it fell neatly into a tessellated pattern before Sherlock's eyes. His coat flapped reassuringly around his shins as he stepped out.

* * *

Back in the apartment, they had responded cursorily to Mrs Hudson and John felt himself flush again. She had always suspected it, the old wench. Then again, so had everybody, he reminded himself dully.

Then they stood uncertainly in the living room at the bottom of the stairs. At least, John did. Sherlock stood just as he normally did. John willed himself to be very far away.

'What happened was, a, mistake,' he told the floor sincerely, sounding the 'a' like the letter itself. 'And I'm sorry. And it shouldn't have happened. And I'm sorry.' A pause. 'And it didn't mean anything,' was for good measure.

'Agreed,' was the reply, followed by a slight raise of his chin and lowering of lids. Gave the feeling, accurately, of being assessed.

There was silence when they left for separate bedrooms. John took a few steps up, Sherlock a few steps away.

And then they were back, music exploded somewhere and there were mouths and tongues and hands and arms. Do it before it catches up with you was the theme of the evening. Also years-heavy, pent-up sexual tension was there, but more boringly.

John realised quickly, and it brought a swell of excitement, that he had the upper hand. Sherlock was taller but he was heavier, older, more experienced. Like it had been peeled from one of his own imaginings, they had swung against the wall (the same spot where they had stopped to catch their breath after doing what John had declared to be one of the most ridiculous things in his life) and Sherlock was pinned. For once, he was the alpha and Sherlock would have to do what he said –

'Watch the coat,' said Sherlock once, only a little breathlessly, on the way to his bedroom.

Okay, so not quite.

Through the bedroom now, and the coat had come off and stepped around (carefully), John's hand was palming his neck and chest and abdomen, another looping behind to cup the buttocks, and then the other, surreally, acknowledging the hard, urgent thing at the front of his pants. What was even more surreal was the very real carnal haze: he very much wanted the thing there, wanted it out and wanted to do things to it and see Sherlock Holmes' reaction when he did so. He maintained his assault on Sherlock's mouth, felt his own cock harden further at the shallow bursts of breathing he was eliciting. Shirt off, pants next, on the bed. Most of John's clothes too had been shed.

Sherlock was leaning back, propped up on elbows, sharp cheekbones throwing shadows across his face, wearing barely anything. And then the real, burning need presented itself to John. He needed to have the man, in every way, or hurt him trying.

But first, and off came the underwear. It was surreal up close. Not like his own, or the pornos, or the unfortunate accidental glances over urinals. Different. Better. He touched and squeezed and Sherlock moaned properly for the first time, that absurdly deep voice echoing from his throat, eyes shut. The surge that ran through John at this sound was really what made him do what he never thought he would – bend and suck. With relish.

There was more experimenting, more groans and shudders, a simultaneous realisation of where it was going. But there was the issue of a round peg in a… well, round hole. Not a very weathered one, though, by the feel of things. At length, John gasped, 'Have you got any lube?'

Sherlock tipped his head up from the pillow where he'd been bracing it, brow furrowed. 'Why would I have lube?'

John remembered who he was talking to.

'Never mind.'

And then, 'What's _lube_?'

'Right.'

He resumed the operation, and then it dawned on the genius.

'You mean lubrication.'

'Mmhmm,' came the muffled response.

'Why would I have lubrication?'

John had to forcibly stop himself from grunting in exasperation. He straightened with a dry remark ready to fire, but Sherlock's lips met his unexpectedly. John took a second this time, a hand behind the curls, tongues exploring, time slowing for just a few moments. Then Sherlock was gone, he felt a tickling near his navel and his cock was in Sherlock's mouth.

'Fuck.'

It was almost a statement, a hilarious juxtaposition to the utterly visceral moan that Sherlock had thrown.

Sherlock. Fellatio. Sherlock is giving me fellatio. Inexperienced, yes. But John saw stars and had to throw an arm back on the footboard to keep from keeling over.

'That should do it,' was Sherlock's verdict a minute later, presumably and very unromantically referring to lubrication.

As usual, he was right.

* * *

Afterwards, the feeling of it, of course, stayed with John. But the expressions and the voice, the transformation from self-possessed genius to what he had turned him into, someone bent and moulded and willing beneath him, was really what transcended everything. And provided food for certain self-fulfilling thoughts in years to come.

_Immediately_ afterwards, however, the room filled with another pregnant silence for which they were quickly becoming famous.

There was an intake of breath preceding a thought, then the thought was abandoned. John too opened his mouth, then looked away. Both sets of eyes darted around every inch of ceiling and opposite wall but avoided contact with one another. A clock ticked.

Finally, 'We don't have to –'

'Not at all.'

'– talk about this do we? Oh, good.' John sighed. He even stretched.

'Goodnight, then.'

The way he said it made John look at him and he was momentarily distracted. Something odd happened to John's throat when he observed hair that was more dishevelled than usual, tellingly swollen mouth, the neck he had veritably mauled only minutes ago. Then he remembered what Sherlock had said, and the way he said it.

'What, are you – are you kicking me out?'

Sherlock's eyebrows went up a bit. 'I assumed that was –' Take two: 'Are you saying you'd prefer to remain here –?'

'No! No.' John was already scrambling around for underwear, the syllables came out like puffs of steam.

* * *

The following morning, John had just finished realising that he couldn't do anything useful with his person and was about to relieve it from the apartment. But first, he had to face the obstacle of Sherlock Holmes sitting at the table behind the morning paper. Awkwardness reigned with an iron fist and mixed metaphors. Well, John thought it did.

'Morning,' he tried.

'Morning.'

Eyes did not leave the paper. It was as though the man had clean forgotten the previous night's exuberant sodomy.

John, miraculously, retained his regular colouring. He straightened his jacket lapel, failed to notice that he had only succeeded in ruffling it, and headed for the front door, thinking he could perhaps hire someone to script the remainder of his life with Sherlock, since improvisation didn't seem to be going anywhere.

'Gay or bisexual?'

The words rang out, clear and ugly. It took a second. John stepped back into the room. 'What?' And again, 'What, me?' He paused unconvincingly. 'Neither.'

A corner of the paper flapped down slightly, revealing that laser-sharp eye. 'Last night's activities beg to differ –'

'Alright, alright. I don't know. Women. Women are…' He felt defeated and utterly ridiculous, and amazed that the feeling hadn't grown on him yet. 'Women are good. Great, in fact. So I don't –'

'So it's either bisexual,' and Sherlock put the paper aside, picked up his mug of tea. 'Or a singular sexual attraction to a particular person regardless of gender.' A wry smile at John's reaction. 'The frankly cartoonish increase of blood flow to the face favours the latter.'

'Shut up, Sherlock.'

'If it's any consolation, I'd feel the same way if I had to be around me all the time.'

'Seriously, shut up.'

Pause, sip, glower.

(That last one was from John, Sherlock had gone back to scanning headlines.)

John suddenly felt brave. 'And what does that make you, exactly?'

Sherlock scoffed. 'Don't pretend you don't know.'

John blinked. 'No, I really don't.'

Sherlock's phone rang shrilly and was answered in a flash.

'Yes.' Feedback, then Sherlock stood and reached for the coat. 'We're on our way.'

John gave up and followed.

* * *

Mid-afternoon found them in Sherlock's bedroom again.

Sherlock growled in a moan but then stopped and frowned. After a second, he repeated the process. And again. He was lying in bed and naked, his lower half covered by a blanket and a huddled figure hard at work beneath it. It was probably for the best that John couldn't see the less than stellar review taking place above him. But then–

'You're doing it wrong.'

The blanket froze comically. An incredulous face appeared at his waist.

'I'm _doing it_ wrong?'

Sherlock impatiently clicked his tongue and spoke in his infuriating typewriter voice. 'Too slow, insufficient suction, inefficient transfer of work between mouth and hand, too much attention being paid to lubrication and paring back of teeth.'

John glared, maintaining incredulity, and rolled off. He was aware that Sherlock's erection had far from subsided and this gave him a mean satisfaction.

'I'm not a seasoned veteran at this, for God's sake.'

'You don't have to be one to know not to drown the poor thing. Plus the pace and friction, I mean,' Sherlock actually rolled his eyes, 'come on, John. It's ele –'

'Do not,' John tried to sound as dangerous as possible, 'say that word.'

Silence, during which they yet again stared in opposite directions, both unsatisfied and self-righteous.

Then, snappily, 'And I wasn't aware you were a bloody expert.'

'I wasn't until about two minutes ago.'

'Oh, of course. And now I suppose you can rewrite the Karma Sutra.'

The flash of eyes was familiar, expressing a pulsing hatred of being doubted. Sherlock rolled up and under the blanket.

'No, Sherlock, you don't have to –'

The mouth that closed around his cock was hot and wet, which would have been enough to silence any man, but then suddenly, out of nowhere, it started doing incredible things. John's sentence devolved into odd chokes and gags, then moans and a gasp. A white, mind-boggling pleasure clouded his frontal lobe an embarrassing eight seconds – eight seconds! he would later think to himself in amazement – after Sherlock's head had disappeared.

Alexander the Great's triumphant return from the sands of Babylon could not have rivalled the look on Sherlock's face as he emerged.

'Told you.'

John had never before felt such intense pleasure alongside intense annoyance. He added it to the list of hybrid emotions he hoped he would get used to.


	2. Chapter 2

'No.'

'Why not?'

'No!'

'_Why not?_'

John shrugged on his coat and was already out the door, Sherlock Holmes hot on his heels. The crisp morning air greeted him immediately and he tightened his scarf. He was distinctly aware of people passing by. All of a sudden, he was sure they were staring at him. Sure they knew.

'Sherlock,' he said, gritting his teeth against impatience and keeping his voice low. 'We are not asking Mrs Hudson to remove your… stains from my chair.'

'And you have yet to explain why not. The woman has enough cleaning products to wage chemical warfare against London.'

'Are _you_ prepared to explain how it got there?'

They began walking towards the subway and John could almost hear Sherlock calculating.

He spoke slowly and carefully. 'I don't know if we need to go into the details of the particular position that led to the… emission, but I'm sure Mrs Hudson is worldly enough to understand the basics. I recall a deeply unsettling story she once told me about her honeymoon.'

'Can we please talk about it later? This is not the time.'

Sherlock was silent for a while, allowing John the foolish hope that they had put the matter to rest.

Then, 'Are you still angry because of this morning's oral sex situation?'

A teenage girl raised her eyebrows at them as she passed.

'Sherlock!' John hissed. His face, on cue, had turned a livid shade of red.

'What?'

'Now is _not_ the time to talk about it.'

He glanced about furiously, sure that an ex-girlfriend or former classmate was in the vicinity.

'I've already apologised,' Sherlock continued impatiently. 'We didn't have enough time.'

'It's fine, now please shut up!'

They arrived at the steps leading to the underground and were surrounded by an outpouring of people, which meant Sherlock could no longer pursue the topic. On the train, John chose seats directly behind an elderly couple.

* * *

He tried to run through the facts of the case. Murder and split-personality and estranged step-brother and disappearing items of heavy furniture and missing cats and dodgy ex-husband. Intriguing case with just the right amount of red herrings and abnormalities. But he couldn't concentrate.

There was Sherlock, hands behind his back, chin up a bit, talking very precisely and very quickly at Lestrade about the case. There was Lestrade interjecting every now and again with an earthy comment to ground Sherlock's briskness. It was all very witty and charming.

But what he was really seeing was a third-rate porno. He was tugging that infernal black coat out of the way, then the pants and underwear, maybe the shirt if there was time, ignoring Lestrade's look of shock and disgust as he pushed Sherlock against the window where all of London could watch as they –

'John?'

'Hm?'

They were both staring at him. Sherlock's look was piercing and Lestrade's a little puzzled. It was a typical space-out worthy of an 80s movie.

'We were wondering if it was possible for organ failure to contribute to such severe psychological issues?' Sherlock repeated.

'Oh, um.'

He tried to focus, made a few connections.

'Yes, it's within the realm of possibility,' he said, nodding a few times.

'Okay,' said Lestrade, turning back to the open manila file in his hand. He stood behind his desk where he had been pacing. 'Then the next stop is Molly. And here's the warrant to search the residence.'

John was standing nearer to the desk than Sherlock, so Lestrade handed him the document. It took John a few seconds too long to register the action and he took it jerkily.

Lestrade looked concerned. 'You all right John?'

Behind them, Sherlock was typing away on his phone and didn't even look up.

'Oh, he's just having a sulk because I didn't reciprocate a sexual favour this morning,' he muttered dryly and matter-of-factly.

There then ensued what must have been the longest and loudest silence in the world.

Lestrade frowned, eyes darting between the pair, his mouth slightly open in a question he couldn't quite form.

'You… I… what?' he concluded.

John was forcibly reminded of the very heavy pause that followed the first time he and Sherlock had crossed all boundaries, but now, to his horror, there was a third party to witness the enveloping awkwardness. He did what he did the first time: took in a breath sharply and smartly, ready to clear the air with a simple yet eloquent explanation, and found that he had forgotten how to string any two words together.

All of this took place over about three or four seconds, during which time Sherlock made a deduction that came too late.

'Should I… not have mentioned that?' he asked the room at large.

'Are you… are you two…?' Lestrade continued, waving weakly at them with the manila file still in his hand.

'No,' said John at last, attempting a plucky smile and even a laugh. 'No, god no. It's just, he's… he means it's for… part of a case we're –'

'You know what?' Lestrade said loudly, shaking his head and furrowing his eyebrows again. 'I didn't hear anything.'

'Right,' sputtered John and began swinging a fist back and forth.

'So, you'll… erm,' prompted Lestrade who was getting more uncomfortable by the second, 'let me know, then?'

'Right, yes.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and said nothing. He followed John out of the office like a collie trying to figure out why a rolled up newspaper had just smacked him on the nose.

* * *

Their steps echoed down the corridor towards the coroner's office. It was all fluorescent lights and linoleum floors and a mission to procure an obscene quantity of human livers, again for the intriguing case (specifically, something to do with the split-personality side of things) which John could barely keep a hold on, thanks entirely to a new level of anger mingled with visions of Sherlock's mouth and chest and cock and a few other things that kept attacking him from various angles. It would be quite useful for him if the visions stopped and allowed him to be angry at Sherlock in peace, but it appeared that he might need professional help to master the most basic of mental exercises.

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance and displayed his uncanny mind-reading abilities.

'You should talk to your psychiatrist about all of this.'

They walked on.

'Then you should fire her,' he added helpfully.

'I can't believe,' John began in a rumble, 'you said that to Lestrade.'

'I had a feeling you didn't approve.'

They approached the end of the hallway where it was a short turn into Molly Hooper's office. John strained to keep his voice down.

'What gave it away?'

'I wasn't aware that anything had to remain a secret and I fail to see why you're making such a big deal out of it.'

'It's a big deal, Sherlock, it's a bloody big deal. All right?'

'Oh, God,' Sherlock murmured.

'What?' John barked, recognising and hating that smug tone.

'Please tell me we're not about to delve into the depths of your boring, predictable psyche and embark on a metaphoric journey where you finally discover the depth and meaning of your feelings for me?'

If John had the ability to process emotion faster, he would have blushed again. Instead, his mouth set in a thin line and he stopped walking.

Sherlock, who had taken a few steps ahead, sighed and stopped too. He even spun slowly and a touch too dramatically on his heel to face John.

'Because,' he continued without even vaguely acknowledging John's irritation. 'I can spare you the daytime soap opera and inform you that sex can be uncomplicated. In fact, it can be downright straightforward.'

'Really?' John said in a near-yell and a big, sarcastic grin took over his face without his permission. 'How many other male best friends have you had _straightforward_ sex with?'

'What?'

They turned. Molly Hooper appeared at the end of the hallway, well within earshot, a large plastic container of organs in her gloved hands and confusion in her eyes.

John's manic look disappeared and his face crumpled.

* * *

'We're living in a far more enlightened time than your paranoia is leading you to believe,' Sherlock informed him almost kindly as he loaded up their fridge with human livers. It was late in the afternoon and a very long and humiliating day was thankfully drawing to a close.

John couldn't think of how to explain the delicateness of their situation to Sherlock without lapsing into the very daytime soap opera he had derided. With good reason, John thought with resignation.

So instead, he said, 'You're probably right.'

Emboldened, Sherlock continued, ''Course I am.' He frowned, rearranging the containers so more of them would fit. 'And just so you know, you did a horrible job of covering your tracks with Molly.'

'Covering my tracks?'

'You could have bluffed your way out instead of looking like a tragic deer caught in headlights and mumbling half-words like an imbecile.'

John collapsed in Sherlock's chair and gathered enough good humour to smile - out of fond weariness this time. 'How, exactly?'

'You could have said we were rehearsing a play.'

He kept stacking but then craned his neck inquiringly at John, surprised at the lack of accolade.

'I saw it in a film,' he snapped when he saw John's expression.

'I'm sure you did.'

The stacking was done. Sherlock washed his hands and walked towards the living room while drying them on a handtowel.

'That's my chair,' he observed.

'Yeah, well, you spilled ejaculate on mine.'

'I've already offered a solution.'

'Let me know when you come up with one that doesn't involve an ageing landlady scrubbing at semen.'

He wasn't aware how it happened, but stacking livers and discussing ejaculate stains had taken on the quality of foreplay. Only in 221B, thought John.

Sherlock approached and they kissed. Enough time had passed since that morning for the action to still catch both of them a little off guard. Sherlock was leaning forwards, John's head tilted up. The romance ended abruptly as soon as John pulled him to the chair and pawed at his belt buckle.

Before long, Sherlock was facing away and moaning against the back of his own chair and John was very close to finishing. He tugged Sherlock's head back as gently as he could in his present state and pressed his mouth on Sherlock's just as he came.

The handtowel from earlier saved Sherlock's beloved chair from ending up in the same state as John's.

Sherlock's phone rang again. Lestrade had sent them photos.

Only minutes later, they were wearing a few remnants of clothing and poring over pictures of furniture and cats, trying to piece it all together. Sherlock sat in his chair with his laptop and John leaned over the back. Amazingly, they made progress. John wondered if sexual release had anything to do with it.

At one stage, Sherlock glanced up at him with an expression disturbingly close to bashfulness.

'See?' he said, and vaguely indicated the laptop. 'It can be uncomplicated.'

There was a defiant edge to his voice that warmed John in a way he couldn't quite place.

'Downright straightforward,' he agreed.

In hindsight, it could have been worse. She could have walked in around twenty minutes ago when they were both entirely naked and going at it like rabbits. What they _were_ doing, though, was kissing rather vehemently. Not to mention that John's hand was well into the front of Sherlock's pants again.

'Oh, dear!' was Mrs Hudson's evaluation.

A terrible pause, the third one of the day. Lips and hands disengaged.

Then John actually smiled. A very small, private one.

'Why not?' he breathed, nodding, more to himself than anyone else.

She had frozen in the doorway bearing her I'm-not-your-housekeeper tray of tea and biscuits.

'Hello, Mrs Hudson!' exclaimed Sherlock, with the air of one who was about to take the reigns and steer them to safety. He looked at John conspicuously and loudly declared, 'We're rehearsing a play.'

* * *

Earlier that day, after a confused Sherlock and an extremely ruffled John had left Lestrade's office, Lestrade stared after them with his hands on his hips.

Without warning, he burst out laughing. He walked around his desk and straight to Sally Donovan's office, where she was just getting off the phone.

'You look unnaturally happy,' she said sullenly.

'Remember our wager, few years back?' He leaned against the doorway, smile stretching from ear to ear. 'You owe me fifty quid.'


End file.
